


Drunk

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in their army days, Moran and Watson get very drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk

   “I should never play with you, you’re a terrible cheat,” Watson says, throwing down his remaining cards.

   “Now Doctor, you’re just a sore loser.” Moran grins around his cigarette. “And I ain’t a terrible cheat; I’m a bloody good cheat, when I  _do_  cheat, that is.”

   “I’m not paying you, you know.”

   “Well that’s hardly sporting, is it?”

   “I don’t have that much money!” Watson cries, then he swiftly looks around. Ascertaining that no one is paying them the slightest bit of attention, he slides over towards the colonel. “However…”

   “However?” Moran watches him, not without some interest, as Watson attempts to undo the buttons of his jacket.

   “I could, erm…” Watson tries to focus on the buttons but in his current state of inebriation he misses. “I could… er… wait… I could… oh sod!”

   “Hey, don’t you rip my jacket!” Moran prises Watson’s fingers away.

   “I could pay you back some other way.”

   “No, Doctor, not like that; you don’t get around me that easily.”

   “Hmm, well then.” Watson sits back and reaches for his glass, managing to catch it on the second try. Alas, it’s empty. “I need another drink,” he announces, standing up.

   “Good plan. Make mine a double.”

   “I think you’ve had enough already,” Watson informs him, and promptly falls over. “Hahahaha, who moved the floor?” he enquires from under the table. Moran peers down at him. Watson looks up at him. “You know while I’m down here…” Watson says.

   “No. Go get more booze, there’s a good doctor.”

   More alcohol is consumed. More women are flirted with by the colonel, who seems to be better at feigning sobriety than Watson. Watson attempts to build a house out of the cards but is foiled by his inability to see straight, so he sits there giggling for a bit with the deck of cards scattered around him until Moran comes back.

   “Not going to, ah, dip your wick with any of them then?” the doctor enquires.

   “I am capable of talking to a lady without trying to get my leg over her, you know.”

   “Knocked you back then, did they?” Watson beams at him.

   Moran thumps his shoulder. “Not my type anyway.”

   “Am I your type?”

   “When I’m desperate enough, indeed you are but– Ah, no.” Moran removes Watson’s hand from where it’s moved to try to fondle his groin. “I’m not gonna let you off the money you owe me that easily.”

   “Oh… bother.” Watson screws up his face in an expression of intense concentration. “You know what we need to do?” he says, as if suddenly enlightened.

   “Drink until we go temporarily blind?”

   “Have a sing-song! Like in the good old British pubs.”

   “A punch-up is more the kind of thing that goes on in the pubs I frequent but by all means, Doctor, feel free to start us off.”

   Watson though is apparently too drunk to remember anything but hymns, so soon Moran takes over. The locals regard him with some bemusement but he somehow manages to whip a few of them up into singing a jolly song, the meaning of which probably eludes them (which is perhaps for the best) and Watson, singing completely off key, finally joins in.

   Nine verses into the ditty about the delights of fornication though, with Moran and Watson standing on the tabletop with their arms around each other and bellowing to the rafters, and the owner decides that enough is enough and these bonkers English bastards can piss off now before they scare away his regulars.

   So they move on to a second dive, even more dingy and disgusting than the first. Here Watson dozes off for a time with his head on the bosom of a rather lovely local girl while Moran plays cards with some exceedingly dangerous-looking men.

   Watson is rudely awoken from his current position of face down on the bench (the rather lovely local girl having despaired of him ages ago) some time later by the colonel grabbing his shoulder.

   “Quick, we’d best scarper,” Moran says.

   “Huh? What?” Watson lets himself be hauled outside anyway, down the street and pulled into an alleyway. After a time several large and rather furious men charge past the end of the alley, and Moran presses him tighter against the wall. “What are-”

   “Shh.”

   “But what-”

   In a desperate attempt to stop the drunken doctor’s mouth running away with him and giving away their location, Moran kisses him. Just to be extra cautious, he kisses him for a very long time. Apart from strongly tasting of various alcoholic beverages, it’s quite pleasant.

   “You cheated them?” Watson says when finally Moran decides it’s safe to remove his mouth from Watson’s.

   “No, I may have just, you know, inadvertently insulted their family honour.”

   Watson squints at him.

   “Well how was I to know that woman I met last week was their sister? Right looker, she was; there’s no family resemblance. Come on.” Moran takes Watson’s hand and leads him back down the alley, pausing to peer around. “We’re safe enough; s’pose we should be getting back to the barracks.”

   “I am pissed as a bloody newt though,” Watson informs him, giggling again and then hiccupping.

   “Yes, Doctor, I had noticed.” Moran slides an arm around Watson’s waist to steady him before he falls flat on his face.

   “Don’t wanna get thrashed for being disrepu-disrepububble. Bringing the regiment into disrepute.”

   “Of course not Doctor. Come on now, we can sneak in the back way. Trust the colonel on this, hmm?”

   “Hmm?” Watson yanks them both to a stop and tries to look Moran in the eyes, though he sways a bit. “I like you,” he says.

   “I like you too, but let’s go back now.”

   “There’s just one thing, Colonel,” Watson says.

   “Oh? What’s that?”

   “Your face… it’s impossible.”

   Moran glares at him. “What’s wrong with my face?”

   “Look at it!” Watson pulls his arm away from where he’s draped it over Moran’s shoulder so that he can put both hands to Moran’s cheeks.

   “Gerrof!” Moran barks.

   “No, but loooook! Look at it! It’s all  _angles_! It’s scientifically impossible!”

   “There’s nothing bleedin’ wrong with my face!” Moran protests. “It’s a perfectly normal, bloody handsome face. Now come on, we need to get back.” He tugs on Watson’s arm.

   “But the angles, man!” Watson says, and then trips over a stone and stumbles, knocking Moran back into the dirt and landing on top of him. “Jesus Christ!” Watson says, when he’s lying there atop the colonel, his face so close that their noses are pressed together. His tone is so serious suddenly that Moran is almost worried.

   “What?” he says. “What’s wrong with my face now?”

   “It’s even  _more_  impossible in close up.”

   “Doctor, if you don’t shut up about my face then I’m gonna have to hit you and carry you back.”

   “You wouldn’t.”

   “I bloody well would.”

   “Hmm, yes you would. Hah.” Watson rolls off Moran, ending up on his back gently waving his arms about rather like a stranded turtle.

   “Come on, Doctor.” Moran pulls him up again and brushes him down.

   “No but I really do like you,” Watson slurs, leaning heavily against Moran’s shoulder.

   “That’s nice, Doctor.”

   “Even though your face is impossible.”

   “Doctor!” Moran says, in as menacing tone as he can manage, but it’s lost on Watson, who’s now passed out. Well, Moran thinks, as he hoists the now softly snoring Watson over his shoulder, at least he’s quiet now.

 


End file.
